Chapter 7
I WAS just a little thing When a fairy came and kissed me; Floating in upon the light Of a haunted summer night, Lo! the fairies came to sing Pretty slumber songs, and bring Certain boons that else had missed me. From a dream I turned to see What those strangers brought for me, When that fairy up and kissed me,-- Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me!
Simmerdew was there, but she Did not like me altogether; Daisybright and Turtledove, Pilfercurds and Honeylove, Thistleblow and Amberglee On that gleaming, ghostly sea Floated from the misty heather, And around my trundle-bed Frisked and looked and whispering said, Solemn-like and all together: "_You_ shall kiss him, Ganderfeather!"
Ganderfeather kissed me then,-- Ganderfeather, quaint and merry! No attenuate sprite was he, But as buxom as could be; Kissed me twice and once again, And the others shouted when On my cheek uprose a berry Somewhat like a mole, mayhap, But the kiss-mark of that chap Ganderfeather, passing merry,-- Humorsome but kindly, very!
I was just a tiny thing When the prankish Ganderfeather Brought this curious gift to me With his fairy kisses three; Yet with honest pride I sing That same gift he chose to bring Out of yonder haunted heather; Other charms and friendships fly,-- Constant friends this mole and I, Who have been so long together! Thank you, little Ganderfeather!
OLD TIMES, OLD FRIENDS, OLD LOVE.
THERE are no days like the good old days,-- The days when we were youthful! When humankind were pure of mind, And speech and deeds were truthful; Before a love for sordid gold Became man's ruling passion, And before each dame and maid became Slave to the tyrant fashion!
There are no girls like the good old girls,-- Against the world I'd stake 'em! As buxom and smart and clean of heart As the Lord knew how to make 'em! They were rich in spirit and common-sense, And piety all supportin'; They could bake and brew, and had taught school, too, And they made such likely courtin'!
There are no boys like the good old boys,-- When _we_ were boys together! When the grass was sweet to the brown bare feet That dimpled the laughing heather; When the pewee sung to the summer dawn Of the bee in the billowy clover, Or down by the mill the whip-poor-will Echoed his night song over.
There is no love like the good old love,-- The love that mother gave us! We are old, old men, yet we pine again For that precious grace,--God save us! So we dream and dream of the good old times, And our hearts grow tenderer, fonder, As those dear old dreams bring soothing gleams Of heaven away off yonder.
OUR WHIPPINGS.
COME, Harvey, let us sit awhile and talk about the times Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,-- The days when we were little boys, as naughty little boys As ever worried home folks with their everlasting noise! Egad! and were we so disposed, I'll venture we could show The scars of wallopings we got some forty years ago; What wallopings I mean I think I need not specify,-- Mother's whippings didn't hurt; but father's,--oh, my!
The way that we played hookey those many years ago, We'd rather give 'most anything than have our children know! The thousand naughty things we did, the thousand fibs we told,-- Why, thinking of them makes my Presbyterian blood run cold! How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked if we were his He'd tan our "pesky little hides until the blisters riz"! It's many a hearty thrashing to that Deacon Morse we owe,-- Mother's whippings didn't count; father's did, though!
We used to sneak off swimmin' in those careless, boyish days, And come back home of evenings with our necks and backs ablaze; How mother used to wonder why our clothes were full of sand,-- But father, having been a boy, appeared to understand; And after tea he'd beckon us to join him in the shed, Where he'd proceed to tinge our backs a deeper, darker red. Say what we will of mother's, there is none will controvert The proposition that our father's lickings always hurt!
For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild That she inclined to spare the rod although she spoiled the child; And when at last in self-defence she had to whip us, she Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we: But how we bellowed and took on, as if we'd like to die,-- Poor mother really thought she hurt, and that's what made _her_ cry! Then how we youngsters snickered as out the door we slid, For mother's whippings never hurt, though father's always did!
In after years poor father simmered down to five feet four, But in our youth he seemed to us in height eight feet or more! Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone: "I'll see you in the woodshed after supper all alone!" Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and trouser-buttons flew,-- What florid vocalisms marked that vesper interview! Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly assert, With all respect to mother, it was father's whippings hurt!
The little boy experiencing that tingling 'neath his vest Is often loath to realize that all is for the best; Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight The bufferings of childhood,--as we do here to-night. The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,-- So, Harvey, let us sit awhile and think upon those times.
BION'S SONG OF EROS.
EROS is the god of love; He and I are hand-in-glove. All the gentle, gracious Muses Follow Eros where he leads, And they bless the bard who chooses To proclaim love's famous deeds; Him they serve in rapturous glee,-- That is why they're good to me.
Sometimes I have gone astray From love's sunny, flowery way: How I floundered, how I stuttered! And, deprived of ways and means, What egregious rot I uttered,-- Such as suits the magazines! I was rescued only when Eros called me back again.
Gods forefend that I should shun That benignant Mother's son! Why, the poet who refuses To emblazon love's delights Gets the mitten from the Muses,-- Then what balderdash he writes! I love Love; which being so, See how smooth my verses flow!
Gentle Eros, lead the way,-- I will follow while I may: Be thy path by hill or hollow, I will follow fast and free; And when I'm too old to follow, I will sit and sing of thee,-- Potent still in intellect, Sit, and sing, and retrospect.
MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE.
THERE are times in one's life which one cannot forget; And the time I remember's the evening I met A haughty young scion of bluegrass renown Who made my acquaintance while painting the town: A handshake, a cocktail, a smoker, and then Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.
There flowed in his veins the blue blood of the South, And a cynical smile curled his sensuous mouth; He quoted from Lanier and Poe by the yard, But his purse had been hit by the war, and hit hard: I felt that he honored and flattered me when Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.
I wonder that never again since that night A vision of Billings has hallowed my sight; I pine for the sound of his voice and the thrill That comes with the touch of a ten-dollar bill: I wonder and pine; for--I say it again-- Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.
I've heard what old Whittier sung of Miss Maud; But all such philosophy's nothing but fraud; To one who's a bear in Chicago to-day, With wheat going up, and the devil to pay, These words are the saddest of tongue or of pen: "Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten."
POET AND KING.
THOUGH I am king, I have no throne Save this rough wooden siege alone; I have no empire, yet my sway Extends a myriad leagues away; No servile vassal bends his knee In grovelling reverence to me, Yet at my word all hearts beat high, And there is fire in every eye, And love and gratitude they bring As tribute unto me, a king.
The folk that throng the busy street Know not it is a king they meet; And I am glad there is not seen The monarch in my face and mien. I should not choose to be the cause Of fawning or of coarse applause: I am content to know the arts Wherewith to lord it o'er their hearts; For when unto their hearts I sing, I am a king, I am a king!
My sceptre,--see, it is a pen! Wherewith I rule these hearts of men. Sometime it pleaseth to beguile Its monarch fancy with a smile; Sometime it is athirst for tears: And so adown the laurelled years I walk, the noblest lord on earth, Dispensing sympathy and mirth. Aha! it is a magic thing That makes me what I am,--a king!
Let empires crumble as they may, Proudly I hold imperial sway; The sunshine and the rain of years Are human smiles and human tears That come or vanish at my call,-- I am the monarch of them all! Mindful alone of this am I: The songs I sing shall never die; Not even envious Death can wring His glory from so great a king.
Come, brother, be a king with me, And rule mankind eternally; Lift up the weak, and cheer the strong, Defend the truth, combat the wrong! You'll find no sceptre like the pen To hold and sway the hearts of men; Its edicts flow in blood and tears That will outwash the flood of years: So, brother, sing your songs, oh, sing! And be with me a king, a king!
LYDIA DICK.
WHEN I was a boy at college, Filling up with classic knowledge, Frequently I wondered why Old Professor Demas Bentley Used to praise so eloquently "Opera Horatii."
Toiling on a season longer Till my reasoning powers got stronger, As my observation grew, I became convinced that mellow, Massic-loving poet fellow, Horace, knew a thing or two.
Yes, we sophomores figured duly That, if we appraised him truly, Horace must have been a brick; And no wonder that with ranting Rhymes he went a-gallivanting Round with sprightly Lydia Dick!
For that pink of female gender Tall and shapely was, and slender, Plump of neck and bust and arms; While the raiment that invested Her so jealously suggested Certain more potential charms.
Those dark eyes of hers that fired him, Those sweet accents that inspired him, And her crown of glorious hair,-- These things baffle my description: I should have a fit conniption If I tried; so I forbear.
Maybe Lydia had her betters; Anyway, this man of letters Took that charmer as his pick. Glad--yes, glad I am to know it! I, a _fin de siècle_ poet, Sympathize with Lydia Dick!
Often in my arbor shady I fall thinking of that lady, And the pranks she used to play; And I'm cheered,--for all we sages Joy when from those distant ages Lydia dances down our way.
Otherwise some folks might wonder, With good reason, why in thunder Learned professors, dry and prim, Find such solace in the giddy Pranks that Horace played with Liddy Or that Liddy played on him.
Still this world of ours rejoices In those ancient singing voices, And our hearts beat high and quick, To the cadence of old Tiber Murmuring praise of roistering Liber And of charming Lydia Dick.
Still Digentia, downward flowing, Prattleth to the roses blowing By the dark, deserted grot. Still Soracte, looming lonely, Watcheth for the coming only Of a ghost that cometh not.
LIZZIE.
I WONDER ef all wimmin air Like Lizzie is when we go out To theaters an' concerts where Is things the papers talk about. Do other wimmin fret an' stew Like they wuz bein' crucified,-- Frettin' a show or concert through, With wonderin' ef the baby cried?
Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there To see that everything is right; Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care Ain't good enuff f'r baby, quite. Yet what am I to answer when She kind uv fidgets at my side, An' asks me every now an' then, "I wonder ef the baby cried"?
Seems like she seen two little eyes A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile; Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries Uv one she thinks uv all the while; An' so she's sorry that she come. An' though she allus tries to hide The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum Than wonder ef the baby cried.
Yes, wimmin folks is all alike-- By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest; There never wuz a little tyke, But that his mother loved him best. And nex' to bein' what I be-- The husband uv my gentle bride-- I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee, With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried.
LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE.
AFTER dear old grandma died, Hunting through an oaken chest In the attic, we espied What repaid our childish quest: 'Twas a homely little slate, Seemingly of ancient date.
On its quaint and battered face Was the picture of a cart Drawn with all that awkward grace Which betokens childish art. But what meant this legend, pray: "Homer drew this yesterday"?
Mother recollected then What the years were fain to hide: She was but a baby when Little Homer lived and died. Forty years, so mother said, Little Homer had been dead.
This one secret through those years Grandma kept from all apart, Hallowed by her lonely tears And the breaking of her heart; While each year that sped away Seemed to her but yesterday.
So the homely little slate Grandma's baby's fingers pressed, To a memory consecrate, Lieth in the oaken chest, Where, unwilling we should know, Grandma put it years ago.
ALWAYS RIGHT.
DON'T take on so, Hiram, But do what you're told to do; It's fair to suppose that yer mother knows A heap sight more than you. I'll allow that sometimes _her_ way Don't seem the wisest, quite; But the _easiest_ way, When she's had her say, Is to reckon yer mother is right.
Courted her ten long winters, Saw her to singin'-school; When she went down one spell to town, I cried like a durned ol' fool; Got mad at the boys for callin' When I sparked her Sunday night: But she said she knew A thing or two,-- An' I reckoned yer mother wuz right.
I courted till I wuz aging, And she wuz past her prime,-- I'd have died, I guess, if she hadn't said yes When I popped f'r the hundredth time. Said she'd never have took me If I hadn't stuck so tight; Opined that we Could never agree,-- And I reckon yer mother wuz right!
"TROT, MY GOOD STEED, TROT!"
WHERE my true love abideth I make my way to-night; Lo! waiting, she Espieth me, And calleth in delight: "I see his steed anear Come trotting with my dear,-- Oh, idle not, good steed, but trot, Trot thou my lover here!"
Aloose I cast the bridle, And ply the whip and spur; And gayly I Speed this reply, While faring on to her: "Oh, true love, fear thou not! I seek our trysting spot; And double feed be yours, my steed, If you more swiftly trot."
I vault from out the saddle, And make my good steed fast; Then to my breast My love is pressed,-- At last, true heart, at last! The garden drowsing lies, The stars fold down their eyes,-- In this dear spot, my steed, neigh not, Nor stamp in restless wise!
O passing sweet communion Of young hearts, warm and true! To thee belongs The old, old songs Love finds forever new. We sing those songs, and then Cometh the moment when It's, "Good steed, trot from this dear spot,-- Trot, trot me home again!"
PROVIDENCE AND THE DOG.
WHEN I was young and callow, which was many years ago, Within me the afflatus went surging to and fro; And so I wrote a tragedy that fairly reeked with gore, With every act concluding with the dead piled on the floor,-- A mighty effort, by the gods! and after I had read The manuscript to Daly, that dramatic censor said: "The plot is most exciting, and I like the dialogue; You should take the thing to Providence, and try it on a dog."
McCambridge organized a troupe, including many a name Unknown alike to guileless me, to riches, and to fame. A pompous man whose name was Rae was Nestor of this troupe,-- Amphibious, he was quite at home outside or in the soup! The way McCambridge billed him! Why, such dreams in red and green Had ne'er before upon the boards of Yankeedom been seen; And my proud name was heralded,--oh that I'd gone incog. When we took that play to Providence to try it on a dog!
Shall I forget the awful day we struck that wretched town? Yet in what melting irony the treacherous sun beamed down! The sale of seats had not been large; but then McCambridge said The factory people seldom bought their seats so far ahead, And Rae indorsed McCambridge. So they partly set at rest The natural misgivings that perturbed my youthful breast; For I wondered and lamented that the town was not agog When I took my play to Providence to try it on a dog.
They never came at all,--aha! I knew it all the time,-- They never came to see and hear my tragedy sublime. Oh, fateful moment when the curtain rose on act the first! Oh, moment fateful to the soul for wealth and fame athirst! But lucky factory girls and boys to stay away that night, When the author's fervid soul was touched by disappointment's blight,-- When desolation settled down on me like some dense fog For having tempted Providence, and tried it on a dog!
Those actors didn't know their parts; they maundered to and fro, Ejaculating platitudes that were quite _mal à propos_; And when I sought to reprimand the graceless scamps, the lot Turned fiercely on me, and denounced my charming play as rot. I might have stood their bitter taunts without a passing grunt, If I'd had a word of solace from the people out in front; But that chilly corporal's guard sat round like bumps upon a log When I played that play at Providence with designs upon the dog.
We went with lots of baggage, but we didn't bring it back,-- For who would be so hampered as he walks a railway track? "Oh, ruthless muse of tragedy! what prodigies of shame, What marvels of injustice are committed in thy name!" Thus groaned I in the spirit, as I strode what stretch of ties 'Twixt Providence, Rhode Island, and my native Gotham lies; But Rae, McCambridge, and the rest kept up a steady jog,-- 'Twas not the first time they had plied their arts upon the dog.
So much for my first battle with the fickle goddess, Fame,-- And I hear that some folks nowadays are faring just the same. Oh, hapless he that on the graceless Yankee dog relies! The dog fares stout and hearty, and the play it is that dies. So ye with tragedies to try, I beg of you, beware! Put not your trust in Providence, that most delusive snare; Cast, if you will, your pearls of thought before the Western hog, But never go to Providence to try it on a dog.
GETTIN' ON.
WHEN I wuz somewhat younger, I wuz reckoned purty gay; I had my fling at everything In a rollickin', coltish way. But times have strangely altered Since sixty years ago-- This age of steam an' things don't seem Like the age I used to know. Your modern innovations Don't suit me, I confess, As did the ways of the good ol' days,-- But I'm gettin' on, I guess.
I set on the piazza, An' hitch round with the sun; Sometimes, mayhap, I take a nap, Waitin' till school is done. An' then I tell the children The things I done in youth,-- An' near as I can, as a vener'ble man, I stick to the honest truth,-- But the looks of them 'at listen Seem sometimes to express The remote idee that I'm gone--you see?-- An' I _am_ gettin' on, I guess.
I get up in the mornin', An', nothin' else to do, Before the rest are up an' dressed, I read the papers through. I hang round with the women All day an' hear 'em talk; An' while they sew or knit I show The baby how to walk. An', somehow, I feel sorry When they put away his dress An' cut his curls ('cause they're like a girl's!)-- I'm gettin' on, I guess.
Sometimes, with twilight round me, I see, or seem to see, A distant shore where friends of yore Linger an' watch for me. Sometimes I've heered 'em callin' So tender-like 'nd low That it almost seemed like a dream I dreamed, Or an echo of long ago; An' sometimes on my forehead There falls a soft caress, Or the touch of a hand,--you understand,-- I'm gettin' on, I guess.
THE SCHNELLEST ZUG.